Dad4Dad

"Why don't you look online for some new friends to watch the Super Bowl with, Hank?" Peggy suggests as she clears the dinner plates from the table.
Hank's brow furrows more tightly as he scoffs, "Online? Peggy, the Internet is full of desperate weirdos and," he shudders, "bloggers."

Bobby, eager for dessert, pipes up, "That's true, Dad, but there are all sorts of people on the Internet, even guys like you."

"If they were like me, they wouldn't be on the dang computer all the time," Hank insists derisively.

"Then go and make up with Dale so that he will re-invite you to his Super Bowl party," says Peggy, bringing a large layered trifle to the table. "You are clearly too old and out-of-touch to be making new friends now."

"Dale should apologize to me!" Hank declares, standing with his palms pressed firmly upon the table in front of him. "And I'll have no trouble making friends – never have, I tell ya what."

Later that night, once Hank is certain that Peggy is snoring deeply next to him, he slips out from under their shared blanket and creeps into the office where they keep their home computer. The computer is an older model; it makes a groaning sound as it boots up, leaving Hank's brow damp with sweat at the fear of being caught. He adjusts his glasses before entering his search terms. The browser asks him if he would like to share his location to increase the odds of finding local results to his query. Hank hesitates, the lines of his face darkening and deepening in the faintly flickering light of the screen. Dale was always babbling about how the Internet spies on people – but Hank is done with Dale, tell ya what. He clicks 'yes'.

This click brings a site called Arlen Online front and centre. "Online Classifieds," Hank reads under his breath. "Doesn't anybody read the daily newspaper anymore?" Still, Hank is intrigued. He is momentarily side-tracked by an ad selling a particularly stylish and functional lawnmower before he takes the plunge by clicking on a category called Casual Connections. Most of the ads have such vulgar titles that Hank feels sick to his stomach. Do these sex perverts really live in Arlen? Does Hank have a neighbour somewhere nearby who is interested in – ugh – "cock and ball torture"?

Scrambling to click the 'x' in the right-hand corner, Hank notices an ad he had missed a moment ago. "Married Straight Dad Looking 4 Buddy," the ad's title reads. Hank scans it again to make sure that he hasn't made a mistake. Still shaky, Hank clicks on the ad to expand it. "Just a regular guy, married, straight, white, few extra pounds, looking for another dad like me to watch the game this Sunday and see what happens. Can Host (Wife and kids out of town). Must be discrete. Bring some beer and cum on over."
"Heh, well alright!" Hank says softly. He copies down the contact information from the ad. "Guess he's not the greatest speller, but he's just a regular, hardworking dad. Can't hold it against him."
The next morning, Hank is smiling broadly over breakfast. Ever vigilant, Peggy takes notices, "Well, Hank, you certainly look cheerful this morning. Quite the turn-around from last night's sour face. Have you come around to Dale?"
"No!" Hank says brightly. "To hell with Dale and to hell with other guys from the alley. I have plans with a new buddy for Sunday, a regular dad just like me, who's not going to cause any, ugh, hijinks."

"Didja meet him on the Internet?" Bobby asks excitedly.

"I –," Hank stutters for a moment, "I met him in a regular way that regular dads who like to watch football and drink beer meet." Hank pauses. "Nothing weird."

Later that week, Super Bowl Sunday has arrived. Dale bursts from his house and scrambles into the alley where Bill and Boomhauer are sipping their beers with calm conviviality. "Emergency, emergency!" Dale cries, flailing sheets of continuous form printer paper in his upraised hand. "There is a situation with You Know Who."

"You mean Hank?" Bill asks innocently.

"Shhh!" Dale flails harder. "That's it. We can't do this on the outside," he says ominously, ushering his friends into his basement.

Once safely inside, Dale spreads out the papers he has been waving. "As you may or may not know, I have been monitoring Hank's Internet activities since I began to suspect he may not be taking my reasonable warnings seriously – and I was right! Ch-ch-cha!" Dale pulls his hands away from the pages dramatically as Bill and Boomhauer lean in for a better look.

"I don't understand," Bill admits. "Who is this Randy Hank is talking to? Never mind – I don't like him."

Boomhauer mumbles, "Dang ol' Arlen Online…some lil' ol' NSA fun…"

"Exactly!" Dale is triumphant. "Hank has been spying on all of us for the NSA, just as I suspected! But he didn't count on me spying on him."

"You mean Hank's going to leak all of my…intimate…activities to that no-good Randy?" Bill is aghast.

"Oh, he'll leak alright," Dale seethes. "I reckon our old friend Hank will explode all over Randy this very day – unless we're there to stop him."

Mean, while Hank is cheerfully pulling his pick-up truck into a driveway on the other side of Arlen. He scoops up the six-pack of Alamo beer and the dip he has brought with him before strolling up to the front door. The neighbourhood does not appear very different from his own. There must be plenty of families around here with regular working men at the head. Hank briefly wonders why Randy had to go online to find a buddy to watch the game with, but then he remembers his own situation with Dale, and decides that it might be better not to bother his new friend Randy about the particulars. Shortly after Hank rings the doorbell, a dark-haired man about Hank's age and height but with a gut more akin to Bill's opens the door with an air of nervous excitement.

"Hank!" he shakily and somewhat roughly pats Hank's shoulder rather than taking his out-stretched hand. "Welcome! Come in!"

Hank steps into the living-room, which is furnished in a way not so unlike his own. This puts him at ease, yet he can't help but notice that the drapes on every window have been decidedly drawn completely closed. Setting his beer and bowl of dip on the coffee table, Hank slowly relaxes into Randy's couch. Randy follows suit, choosing a cushion closer to Hank than Hank figures is necessary, but he tries to ignore it in favour of catching up on the pre-game show. Randy slurps the last swig from his Alamo. He presses his fists into the cushion on either side of him in preparation to stand and retrieve another from his fridge. Noticing, Hank offers, "Help yourself to one of mine there, Randy. Don't want to miss the next replay of that clip reel they just showed. It's only gonna get better."

"Thanks, Hank," Randy says, his hairy forearm brushing against Hank's knee as he reaches onto the coffee table. "You really know how to treat a man."

"Uh, yeah, well, okay then," Hank shifts uncomfortably, refusing to draw his eyes away from the TV to meet Randy's gaze.

The pre-game show breaks for commercials. Randy stretches his arms across the back of the sofa and exhales, "Ahh, sure is great to just spend some quality time with another dad. Don't get me wrong, I love the wife and kids, but sometimes a man needs some time with another man to be able to really relax and be himself."

"I hear that," Hank replies, his mind slipping to his buddies from the alley. "Sometimes ya don't realise just how important that bond is, I tell ya what…"

Hank's ambivalent introspection is interrupted by the sound of a zipper. Blinking, he looks down to see that Randy, still sitting unusually close to him with his arm across the back of the sofa just above his shoulders, has exposed his partially erect member. Hank leaps from the sofa, "Bwaaaahhhh!"

At that very moment there is an aggressive pounding on Randy's front door. "Open up, Randy – if that is your real name! You're dealing with a fully licensed bounty hunter!"

Randy's eyes widen with terror, "I knew I shouldn't have trusted a guy I met on the Internet!" He anxiously paces behind his couch, his pants still undone.

Hank sighs as he opens the front door, "Dang it, Dale."

"My name is Rusty Shackleford," Dale insists, pushing past Hank to enter Randy's living-room. Bill and Boomhauer follow curiously. "So this is your NSA buddy, is it? Not what I was expecting. I was expecting someone with a functional belt."

"Just get out of my house," Randy quivers. "Take anything you want. Just, please, just leave quietly. I can't have the neighbours finding out about this."

Dale inches closer to him in a pseudo-karate stance, "Just like a government spy to be concerned about privacy when the tables are turned!"

"Spy?" Hank says incredulously. "Dale, you giblet-head. He's not a spy. He's…ugh."

"I'm sorry, Hank," Randy's shoulders slump as he fumbles with his pants. "There seems to have been some misunderstanding."

"You're dang right there was," Hank grumbles.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Randy pleads. "It's just so hard to meet new people at my age, especially, uh, people like me. I thought, well, I thought maybe if I could hook up with a guy in a similar situation – you know, another married dad – we'd understand each other better. Boy, did I miss the mark."

Hank pauses. As he remembers his frustration at the prospect of spending Super Bowl Sunday without any other guys around to watch the game with, his face softens, "No, sir, I can't pretend I understand your, ugh, lifestyle, but I do understand what it's like trying to make new friends at this stage of the game."

Randy's face brightens.

Dale is still lost, but Boomhauer chuckles, "Dang ol' NSA…no strings attached, man…"

Dale's eyes narrow with suspicion, "Why would anyone meet an Internet stranger for a no-strings-attached Super Bowl Party?"

"Like the man said," Hank explains, "sometimes it's hard for a busy husband and father to make new friends, and sometimes, well, sometimes a guy just needs to drink beer and watch football with the guys. Well, Randy, looks like your Super Bowl party just got bigger."

"Really?" Randy blinks. "You still want to watch the game with me?"

"Yep," Hank nods. "But that's all I want to do with you, no misunderstanding."

"Got it," Randy nods with a smile. "Thanks, Hank."

The guys all make themselves comfortable in front of the TV with beer and chips.

Later that night, as Hank departs, Randy says to him quietly, "You know, Hank, I never imagined anyone would still want to have anything to do with me after finding out, especially not a regular guy like you. Thanks again." As his new friends stumble out of his house and into the night, Randy can't help but grin at the shape beneath Boomhauer's jeans.